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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22813054">lost (in the thrill of it all)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Timeline, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, I Love You, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Graduation, Post-Season/Series 03, Reunions, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf)-centric, Scott-Centric, Somewhat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 10:48:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22813054</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why are you being such a sourwolf, Scott?" Stiles shrieks, directly into Scott's ear. He winces. "What's wrong?"</p><p>Scott looked at his drink, his flat beer looking more and more unappealing by the second. "Nothing, Stiles. Nothing wrong at all."</p><p>"Liar." Malia flicks him. "Heartbeat." </p><p>Stiles makes an affronted look- or attempts to, in all his drunken glory- and it's enough to make Scott chuckle lowly. "Scott! No lying! No secrets between best friends!" </p><p>Scott's laugh dies away, and he bites his lip thoughtfully. </p><p>"I think-" His throat closes up a bit, and he looks at his toes. "I think I'm going to go to France." <br/>-</p><p>alternatively, tracking down isaac, like most things in scott's life, is extremely difficult.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lost (in the thrill of it all)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i listened to "lost" by frank ocean as well as "san francisco" by the mowgli's when writing this, so give those a listen while you read :)</p><p>my tumblr: oliivverwood xo</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Scott graduates. </p><p>The tassel on his hat is flipped to the other side and he makes his way back down to his seat next to Lydia. A few rows back, Stiles is cheering and whooping while everyone glares at him amidst the polite clapping. His mom is sniffling a bit; he can hear it, clear as day, and the Sheriff is patting her on the back, his eyes glassy, too. Mason, Liam, Hayden and Cory sit near her, smiling toothily at him. </p><p>It's bittersweet. He's happy, in an almost dazed way, not really comprehending it all- but distracted. </p><p>There is an empty chair, the first seat in the front row, honouring where Allison would've sat. </p><p>And Isaac- <em>well</em>.</p><p>He's not dead, so they don't have a chair for him. </p><p>He's just not here. </p><p>Scott would be lying if he said he didn't think about Isaac. How could he not? Isaac had <em>lived </em>with him. His mom loved Isaac like a son. </p><p>Isaac was <em>pack. </em></p><p>He'd entertained the thought of trying to find Isaac, for a while, now. Since Argent came back from France. </p><p>
  <em>"He wasn't ready." </em>
</p><p>That's all Argent had said when Scott asked. </p><p>Scott wanted to know when Isaac would be ready. Desperately. </p><hr/><p>His mind's halfway made up when they're at the graduation rager Lydia is throwing. She wants one last hurrah, before she moves out of Beacon Hills and her intimidating title of '<em>best parties in the county'. </em>Scott nurses a warm beer, untouched since it was pushed into his hand. What was the point? He couldn't get drunk. </p><p>Stiles could, though, and dear <em>God, </em>he was. He had an arm around Lydia's waist, yelling at Malia, "we <em>made </em>it! We <em>made </em>it!" </p><p>It brings a small smile to his face. Stiles' head is whirling around so fast that he's at risk of whiplash, and finally he spots Scott. </p><p>"Scott!" He beckons, waving his cup at him. His drink splashes all over the floor and he breaks into giggles. "C'mere!" </p><p>Stiles throws the arm around Scott, giving up on the drink and dropping it on the floor. Lydia tuts softly. </p><p>"Why are you being such a <em>sourwolf, </em>Scott?" Stiles shrieks, directly into Scott's ear. He winces. "What's wrong?"</p><p>Scott looked at his drink, his flat beer looking more and more unappealing by the second. "Nothing, Stiles. Nothing wrong at all."</p><p>"Liar." Malia flicks him. "Heartbeat." </p><p>Stiles makes an affronted look- or attempts to, in all his drunken glory- and it's enough to make Scott chuckle lowly. "Scott! No lying! No secrets between best friends!" </p><p>Scott's laugh dies away, and he bites his lip thoughtfully. </p><p>"I think-" His throat closes up a bit, and he looks at his toes. "I think I'm going to go to France." </p><hr/><p>Stiles is nursing the <em>shittiest </em>hangover, in the morning, but that doesn't stop him from bringing Scott to the airport, Lydia, Liam and Malia in the backseat. </p><p>"You'll find him fast, right?" Stiles murmurs in his ear when they hug. Scott doesn't really want to let go. He and Stiles haven't been apart voluntarily since the day they met. "Like, how far could he have gotten?"</p><p>"Not far, hopefully, but I'll be gone for as long as it takes." Scott whispers, his cheeks warming up. Stiles pulls away, raises a brow, but thankfully doesn't say anything. </p><p>"Do you even know where he is?" He asks. Scott shrugs, his hands clutching at a piece of paper in his pocket. </p><p>"Argent gave me the address of where they last stayed before he came back." He shrugs again. "Call me?"</p><p>"Every day." Stiles nods gravely. "Even with international prices."</p><p>Scott laughs. "I love you too, bro." </p><hr/><p>France is big. Like, <em>really fucking big. </em>Scott has one big backpack, his cellphone in one pocket, and his passport, wallet, and the address in another. </p><p>He doesn't know how long he'll be in France. Hell, he doesn't even know if <em>Isaac's </em>still in France. He could be anywhere in the <em>world, </em>for all Scott knows. </p><p>It's a one hour drive to Gordes from the Marseilles Provence Airport, but it takes him forty five minutes to find a car, and another fifteen to understand what the driver's saying, and by the time they're <em>finally </em>on the road, Scott's fantasising about knocking the driver out and speeding away in the car. </p><p>Gordes is small, and it's quaint. Most of the buildings are made with some sort of sandy coloured brick, and it looks <em>ancient, </em>but there's an energy in the air that makes the hairs on Scott's neck stand up.</p><p>He asks around, address in hand, and it takes him to the top of the hill, to a pretty little inn. There's mistletoe growing in hanging potted plants, between brightly coloured flowers and vibrant green leaves. </p><p>Scott finds himself at the front desk, which is empty, and taps the bell that sat on the counter. Behind the wall, he notices a peculiar collage of people- none that he could recognise, at least. </p><p>He smells her first. </p><p>A woman, older, slowly turns the corner, and her nose twitches. </p><p>"Looking for a room?" She says with a thick french accent. "We have one vacancy."</p><p>"Um." Scott says eloquently. "Yes. Yes please." </p><p>She nods, tapping something into a computer in front of her, then handing him a key. "Where are you from?" </p><p>"Um. Ameri-"</p><p>"<em>Where </em>in America?"</p><p>Scott gripped the key tightly. "Beacon Hills."</p><p>Her face melts into a small smirk. "Scott McCall. Welcome." She wags a finger playfully at him. "I have heard about you." </p><p>Scott had never felt more bemused in his life. How did this stranger in <em>France, </em>know who he was? He sniffed the air once more, trying to find any hint of aggression. There was none- only curiosity filled the air.</p><p>She flashed her eyes at him, and the familiar red didn't feel dangerous, like it normally did. </p><p>"Go get settled in your room." She hummed. "Come back down when you want to talk." </p><hr/><p>The room has a great view, overlooking the rest of the village and the forests, but there's a computer in the corner that Scott's more interested in. There's terrible service, but it's just enough to open his email account and happily find a few from his friends and family. </p><p>
  <em>'Scott,</em>
</p><p><em>When you see this, you'll be in France! Please send lots of pictures- it's completely unfair that you're in France and I'm helping my dad in the Beacon Hills </em>Sherriff's Department- <em>a travesty and tragedy. </em></p><p>
  <em>Any idea where he is? Any other werewolves? Banshees? Things? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I miss you a lot buddy! Find your furry little problem soon, or I'll come after you! Call me!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your beloved best friend, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Stiles.'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'Scott, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please come back. Stiles is already driving us insane, and it hasn't even been 24 hours yet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Malia and Lydia'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'Scott,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Email me back that you're safe! I will send Argent after you, if I must!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Love, Mom.'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Scott chuckled, and quickly typed back some responses before shutting off the computer. He'd need it again soon, to book a flight.</p><p>He had a feeling that Isaac wasn't in France anymore, but at least here he would find out where Isaac went next. </p><p>When Isaac left, he didn't even say goodbye. And Scott hadn't expected it to <em>hurt, </em>like that. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in his stomach, his gut wrenching as the knife turned whenever anyone mentioned his name. His <em>mom </em>cried. And Scott, not for lack of trying, let some tears roll down his face rather than angrily rubbing his eyes. Losing a member of the pack wasn't the same as losing a friend. Even losing <em>family </em>wouldn't account for how it felt. It was a dull, throbbing ache, present of every minute of every hour of every day, and the pain felt fresh every time Isaac resurfaced in his mind. </p><p>Scott tried to reach him for months. Call, text, email, letter, from him, from Stiles, Lydia, Malia, <em>everyone</em>, but it was a dead end. </p><p>Eventually, everyone else got over it. </p><p>But not Scott. </p><p>Scott didn't think he'd ever get over it unless he found him. </p><p>He fell back onto the bed, groaning loudly. </p><p>Maybe he'd take that old lady up on her offer of talking.</p><hr/><p>The woman is sat on the terrace, sipping something sweet-smelling, and her eyes were closed. She kept them closed, even as Scott sat down across from her. </p><p>"Scott McCall." She said simply, and Scott found it kind of charming, how his name sounded in an accent. It was new. He liked new. </p><p>"How do you know who I am?" Scott asked nervously. She was tapping her fingers on the table, clicking as her nails sharpened and lengthened into claws. </p><p>"Well, it's not every day a True Alpha comes about, hm?" She chuckled melodically. "And your friend told me all about you, mon chèrie. The one you're looking for."</p><p>Scott perked up at that. "Isaac?" </p><p>She nodded. "Isaac Lahey. Came here with a hunter, but didn't leave with him."</p><p>"Former hunter." Scott said automatically. "Argent, he- uh- doesn't hunt us anymore." </p><p>"Interesting how times have changed." She commented airily. "What horrible event happened to send Argent and Isaac all the way here to Gordes?" </p><p>Scott's mouth dried up, and his eyes prickled only a little. He cleared his throat. "Our friend, Allison Argent. She died saving us." </p><p>He could smell the sympathy coming off of her in waves. Scott expected that he smelled like sadness, a sour, bitter scent that wrinkled noses. </p><p>"No wonder." She said softly. "<em>Desoleè, </em>Scott. Isaac did never tell me too much about his own past."</p><p>He shook his head. "It's okay."</p><p>They paused for a few moments, the silence between them filled up by the sound of birds chirping in the distance, trees rustling. Far away, Scott could here the chatter of the locals in the village. </p><p>"How did you know I was looking for Isaac?" Scott questioned. </p><p>The woman took a sip of her tea first. "Guessed. He is your friend, no? More importantly, your beta."</p><p>"Yeah." He answered lamely. "He- er- well, <em>we </em>haven't heard from him for a long time now. And I was really worried- he lived with me for a bit, because his parents died, and my mom loved him like a son, and Argent didn't come back with him and I just want to know if he's okay, but he's not here and I-" </p><p>"<em>Chèrie." </em>She chuckled. "I don't know where he is now, but I do know where he went after he left France."</p><p>Scott's heart began to race. This was the next step to finding Isaac.</p><p>Isaac. Cryptic, mysterious Isaac. Ephemeral. </p><p>Many SAT words come to mind when he thinks of Isaac, and Scott's mouth curls slowly. </p><p>"Do you have an address?" </p><hr/><p>It's only a day later that he and his single backpack are on a bus to Lisbon, Portugal, and God, it's almost a 24 hour ride, but he wasn't about to pay for a flight ticket to an almost <em>neighbouring </em>country. </p><p><em>"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss-" Scott was mortified when he realised he didn't even know her </em>name. <em>"I'm so sorry, I don't think I ever got your name." </em></p><p>
  <em>"That doesn't matter, Scott McCall." She laughed raspily. "Here, let me show you one more thing before you leave." She gently grabbed his arm, leading him behind the front desk, in front of the wall of photos he'd noticed when he first arrived. She tapped a claw on a small picture in the middle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Isaac. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"We take photos of our guests to remember them by." She said fondly, tracing her claw around the photo. </em>
</p><p><em>He looked the exact same as he did when Scott last saw him, which made sense- France was Isaac's first stop. He was </em>smiling; <em>it was genuine, happy, contagious. </em></p><p>
  <em>Scott's stomach wrenched, almost painfully. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Now, mon chou, go to Lisbon. Hopefully someone there will know where your friend went."</em>
</p><hr/><p>The address takes him to an apartment near Rossio, the centre of the city. It's in a small, clean looking building, on the third floor. Scott hesitates before knocking, his fist hovering over the door. </p><p>He can't smell Isaac, here- maybe he had been once, but he hadn't been here for a long, long time. </p><p>Scott's heart drops a bit, before steeling itself again. </p><p>He <em>would </em>find Isaac, no matter how long it took. </p><p>He rapped his knuckles against the door firmly, three times. A couple seconds later, the door opens. A man stood there, looking at Scott expectantly. He looked a couple years older than him, but still young. </p><p>"Hi." Scott shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Isaac. Isaac Lahey." </p><p>"Isaac?" The man had a British accent, airy and elegant. "Oh, he was my old roommate. He moved out months ago, though. Sorry." </p><p>Scott sighed. "Yeah, I know. I'm trying to track him down. Do you know where he went?" </p><p>The man shrugged, and Scott inwardly groaned. "We didn't really talk at all. He needed a place to stay and I needed someone to split rent with."</p><p>Scott must have looked <em>really </em>miserable at that, because the man rolled his eyes and said, "look, mate, there was this old guy at a coffee shop down the street that Isaac talked to often. It's right on the corner of the street. He sits in the back near the books. Name's Emile. Maybe you'll have a bit more luck." </p><p>"Thank you <em>so </em>much." Scott mumbled quickly, before the door was slammed in his face. </p><p>He huffed, annoyed, before he turned around. </p><p>"<em>Asshole." </em></p><hr/><p>Emile was right where Isaac's ex-roommate had told him he'd be- next to a musty old bookshelf, with tomes so ancient looking that Scott worried if he even breathed the wrong direction, they'd crumble. The shop itself was cute, he supposed, if you were into expensive latte art and hipster-wannabes discussing underground movies in low tones at tables in the corners of the shop. </p><p>Emile was sitting alone, an empty cup sitting innocently on the tabletop in front of him. He seemed to just be people-watching, his cane rested gently against the table. </p><p>Scott didn't really want to disturb him. </p><p>He approached the table cautiously, hovering over the table. "Hi. Sorry to disturb you, sir. Are you Emile?" </p><p>The man looked up suspiciously, over gold-rimmed glasses. "Who's asking?" </p><p>"<em>Um, </em>I'm looking for my friend- Isaac Lahey." </p><p>At the mention of his name, a small smile crept onto Emile's face. "Oh, young man, take a seat."</p><p>Scott sat down in front of him, resting his own hands in his lap. </p><p>"How did you know Isaac?" Emile asked. </p><p>"High school- um, we were- <em>are, </em>really close friends." Scott bit his lip. </p><p>It felt like a lie, and his heartbeat had stuttered, but Scott didn't know <em>why. </em></p><p>"So which one are you?" Emile questioned curiously. "Stiles? Vernon? No, no-" He tutted, looking at him thoughtfully. "You must be Scott." </p><p>This was the second <em>stranger </em>that knew who he was. Scott was stunned. </p><p>Did Isaac really talk of him that much, that he could be recognised in a different <em>continent? </em></p><p>Isaac had remembered him. </p><p>A warm feeling crept up Scott's spine. </p><p>"How did you know?" </p><p>Emile chuckled. "He talked about you constantly. I do remember how he mentioned a crooked jaw in passing." </p><p>Scott heated up at that. "How did you know Isaac?" </p><p>Emile sighed, looking at the coffee bar nostalgically. "He worked here, for a bit. Made me some of the best coffee I'll ever have. Kept a lonely old man company, too. I used to have a dog, that I'd bring here. He was wonderful with him. Isaac was even there when she died- she seemed so comforted, by his presence... like it hurt less when he was touching her." </p><p>Scott remembers the first time Isaac took pain from the dog at Deaton's. How a tear had slipped out, and it was the first time he saw Isaac smile. His heart swelled at the memory, and at the picture of him doing the same all the way across the Atlantic.</p><p>"I'm looking for him." Scott mumbled. "Something happened, back home, that made him need to leave. So he went to France- but I haven't heard from him in a year. Someone he knew well directed me here-"</p><p>"-and now you're wondering where he went from here." He hummed. "When I knew him, he talked of where he was from so fondly. How he missed his friends, his best friend Scott, a woman named Melissa, who he loved like a mother. I didn't realise he never went back."</p><p>God, Scott missed him so <em>fucking much. </em></p><p>"That's why I'm here." He murmured. "I'm going to bring him home." </p><p>Emile's eyes twinkled from behind his glasses. </p><p>"I'll write down an address for you. He told me that's where he'd be next, in case I ever needed to reach him." </p><hr/><p>Five hours later, Scott was at the airport, boarding a flight to Morocco. </p><p>
  <em>"When you find him-" Emile curled his hands around Scott's, placing the slip of paper with the address on it in his palm. "Tell him I say hello." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Will do, sir." Scott nodded. "Thank you so much."</em>
</p><p>He checked his phone on the airport wifi, quickly. </p><p>
  <em>'Scott, buddy, text me back soon! Where in the world are you now?' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Lisbon. But I'm about to fly to Morocco.'</em>
</p><p>The message back is almost instantaneous.</p><p>'<em>Dude, that's insane. Location number three, in like, three days. You'll find Lahey in no time.' </em></p><p>
  <em>'Hopefully.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>'I believe in you buddy. Text me when you land. Love you.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>'Love you too. Will do.'</em>
</p><p>And with that, Scott shut off his phone, gazing out the rattling windows as the airplane began to move.</p><hr/><p>Marrakesh is a <em>sensory overload. </em></p><p>The colours and smells and sounds are nothing like Scott's ever experienced. Products in the market stalls range from spices in every colour of the rainbow to silks that felt like water underneath his calloused palms. There is a constant chatter, people bustling around corners with woven baskets and bags. Faintly, Scott can hear music, and it's cheerful and bright. The sun sets over the market place, light hitting all the shiny windows and glass trinkets on storefronts, exploding into a kaleidoscope of colours that spins all around him. </p><p>It's dizzying, it's hypnotic-</p><p>-and its beautiful. It's <em>so </em>beautiful. It brings a tired smile to his face. </p><p>Scott's exhausted. He hasn't felt his muscles strain and his eyes droop like this since he's been bitten, and the last time he slept in a bed was in France- if only for a few hours, before he'd jetted off to Lisbon. </p><p>He checks into a small bed and breakfast in the midst of all the action of Marrakesh, tossing his bag onto the floor, stripping off his pants and shirt and hitting the mattress with dead weight. </p><p>Isaac will have to wait a night. Scott's sure he'll understand- he can continue his search with more vigour and energy the next morning. </p><p>Scott hears only the distant honking of evening traffic before he succumbs to sleep, Isaac the only thing that haunts his thoughts.</p><hr/><p>The address on the napkin Emile gave him leads him to a rundown, if not peculiar hostel, only a twenty minute walk from where Scott was staying. It's an overwhelming twenty minutes, as Scott narrowly misses getting splattered by a motorcycle, and he has to ask two cranky shop owners where to go next, but he gets there eventually, like he always does. </p><p>The hostel is stout, the red paint beginning to chip, and Scott can faintly smell breakfast wafting out of the rooms. Children run out the door, shoving past Scott's legs, eager to play in the new day. </p><p>When Scott enters the building, he immediately smells something distinctly <em>not </em>human. He can't yet identify what it was, who it could be. </p><p>A few women walk into the lobby, and the scent gets stronger. One of them stops in front of him, eyeing him curiously. </p><p>"May I help you?" She asks, her voice rich and deep like honey, melodic. It's hypnotising. He recognises the type of voice, the scent. </p><p>"You're a banshee." He blurts, and slaps a hand over his mouth, his cheeks flooding red. Her mouth drops open and he's already there. "Oh my <em>god, </em>I'm so sorry, that was <em>so </em><em>rude </em>of me-"</p><p>And she's laughing. She's laughing <em>hard, </em>her shoulders vibrating and her eyes tearing up and relief flows through Scott like a gushing river. </p><p>"That's alright. I do prefer Soraya." She wheezed, clearing her throat. "Who told you?" </p><p>"I could smell it." He mumbled. The woman raised an eyebrow, and Scott flustered, flapping his hands and trying to explain. He settled for just flashing his eyes, and she made a noise of appreciation. </p><p>"I see." She said kindly. "What are you here for, then?"</p><p>"I'm looking for my friend, Isaac. I'm under the impression that he stayed here." </p><p>Soraya's eyes widened. "Isaac- Isaac <em>Lahey?</em><em>"</em></p><p>Scott nodded. </p><p>"Why don't you come in? We can talk about Isaac over some tea." </p><hr/><p>They sit outside in the shade of large, leafy trees. It's strangely quiet, the quietest it's been since he got to Morocco. </p><p>"Maghrebi mint tea." Soraya explains, pouring him a glass. It smells delicious, refreshing and sharp, and makes his nose itch.</p><p>They sit in silence, for a few hasty moments, sipping tea. She breaks the silence first, placing her cup down on the table. "I recognise you." </p><p>Scott's less perplexed than the first two times, but it still blows his mind that Isaac cares enough to tell people about him. </p><p>Soraya rummages in her pockets, and pulls out a photo. "He forgot this here when he left." </p><p>Scott all but stops breathing. </p><p>It's a photo of him and Isaac, arms around one another as they attempted posing for the camera in the McCall front yard. But Scott's mouth is right by Isaac's ear, smirking and saying something that causes a racket, because Isaac's face is contorted into one of laughter, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open in a large smile. </p><p>Scott closes his eyes as he remembers that day. It had been Isaac's first official day working with Deaton, and Melissa had been so proud. She had ushered them to fix their hair and go stand in the yard while she held up her phone, nitpicking and groaning when they wouldn't stand the way she had wanted. </p><p>"He never went anywhere without it." Soraya said softly, breaking Scott's trance. "I'm sure he would have been devastated to leave it here." </p><p>"Did you know him well?" Scott murmured. </p><p>Her eyes softened. "Yes. We spoke often- it's nice, having someone- <em>you know- </em>around. I don't know too much about what drove him away from home. I don't know too much about his friends. But he did tell me about his family. About his brother and mother, and his-" she shuddered "- <em>monster </em>of a father. He <em>locked </em>Isaac in a <em>freezer." </em></p><p>Scott swallowed thickly. "Yeah- yeah, I know."</p><p>"How close are you two?" She asked, pouring him some more tea. He took it gratefully. </p><p>"I-" Scott paused, panicking. What <em>was </em>Isaac to him? A best friend? A brother? </p><p>Who is he trying to <em>kid? </em>Even if Isaac left Beacon Hills, he never left Scott's mind.  </p><p>Love was a fickle thing.</p><p>"Very close." Is what he settled for. She nodded understandingly. </p><p>"Well, he only left here about two weeks ago." Soraya said. Scott's neck jerked up, his eyes boring into her. </p><p>"<em>Two weeks?" </em>He all but whispered. "How long did he stay here?" </p><p>"Five months." She said firmly. "He worked here, too." </p><p>Scott's so close to finding Isaac that he can <em>taste </em>it. </p><p>"I know where is is now, as well." </p><p>
  <em>So close. </em>
</p><hr/><p>Scott stays one more night in Marrakesh, but sleep doesn't find him. It's too hot, then it's too cold, so he settled for laying on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling, clutching Isaac's photo in his hand. </p><p>Scott hasn't really thought about what he'd say, what he'd do, when he finally found Isaac. He wondered if he'd be able to say anything at all. He couldn't even begin to predict how he would react. Perhaps their reunion would be anticlimactic. Perhaps Isaac wouldn't want to go home with him. </p><p>Lots to consider. </p><p>Scott doesn't even try to fall asleep. </p><hr/><p>It feels like full circle when he touches down in San Francisco. </p><p>Before flying to France, the furthest from Beacon Hills he'd gotten was <em>Mexico- </em>not that it was an enjoyable, relaxing trip of any kind. And turns out Isaac, fucking <em>Isaac </em>had been not even a <em>state </em>away the entire time. </p><p>Not that Scott regretted a thing. Not a single thing. </p><p>This trip, Scott got to <em>be </em>Isaac. And he'd learned so much. </p><p>He wanted to learn more. </p><hr/><p>Scott's got an address that Soraya gave him, but it's by pure chance his cab breaks down right near the Golden Gate Bridge. </p><p>It's a beautiful bridge, even in the drizzly weather, the red striking against grey skies and rolling green hills. He doesn't mind a bit of a walk- or at least he <em>hopes </em>he can pick up a cab a little later. But he can wait. He can always wait. </p><p>Scott closes his eyes slightly as he walks, listening to the waves crash and the tourists and their cameras and the traffic whizzing by on the bridge. It's soothing his nerves, the nerves that have been frazzled since he landed back in America. </p><p>No, that was a lie. </p><p>He'd been brimming with anxiety since he <em>left. </em></p><p>Scott thinks that maybe this would be the right time to think about what he'll say to Isaac. Maybe predict what he'll feel, because he's accepted that his emotions were quite possibly the <em>least </em>predictable component of <em>any </em>stressful situation. At least, that's what Stiles told him. </p><p>But he'll think about it now, amongst the smells of car exhaust, of salty water and trees and his sweaty shirt and-</p><p>
  <em>And. </em>
</p><p>Wool, cheap drugstore deodorant, the same type Stiles uses, <em>wolf.</em></p><p>It's too soon. </p><p>Scott's not even <em>near </em>the address yet. </p><p>He's imagining it. </p><p>As he's walking off the bridge, he <em>must </em>be imagining the lanky figure sitting on the rocks down below, has to be dreaming of golden locks and a brooding expression and a jutted jaw. </p><p>Isaac Lahey. In the flesh. </p><hr/><p>Scott's numb when he's approaching Isaac, and he's fifty meters, forty, thirty- and Isaac turns around, of <em>course </em>he does and Scott stops dead in his tracks, and the world feels like it's about to stop spinning and the silence between them is deafening even when the ocean is <em>smashing </em>the rocks just <em>footsteps </em>away. </p><p>Isaac's mouth opens slowly. </p><p>Too slow. </p><p>Scott didn't expect the first thing he'd feel was <em>anger. </em></p><p>Deep, untouched <em>fury. </em>It's coming from a hurt place. </p><p>"My mom couldn't even <em>sleep</em> when you left." Scott's voice is quivering, and Isaac flinches like he's been slapped in the face. Scott's voice doesn't <em>quiver- </em>he's an alpha, a <em>true </em>alpha, he's the picture of strength, of leadership, of <em>good. </em>"<em>I </em>couldn't sleep when you left." </p><p>Isaac makes to speak again, but Scott's on a roll, holding his hand up and closing the thirty meters between them, slow as molasses. "Not <em>one </em>call, <em>one </em>text, <em>nothing. </em>Even <em>Deaton </em>was worried. Fucking <em>Deaton, </em>Isaac, do you know how <em>hard </em>it is to shake him?"</p><p>Isaac breathes out a low, "<em>Scott-"</em></p><p>"I know it fucking hurt when A-Allison..." and he chokes on her name, he <em>always </em>does. "When she <em>died. </em>It hurt you. I <em>loved</em> her. We <em>all did!</em>" </p><p>There's ten meters between them. Isaac's stopped trying to talk, but his mouth is still open, shocked. </p><p>"But we <em>needed </em>you. We <em>loved- </em>no, <em>love </em>you. For <em>fuck's sake, </em>Isaac, <em>I </em>love you." Scott's voice cracks. "I love you<em>, </em>Isaac, and you fucking <em>left." </em></p><p>Isaac flinches again, and maybe it's a trick of the light, or the drizzle that Scott's only <em>just </em>noticed turned into rain, but his eyes look glazed. Wet.</p><p>"I've been halfway around the fucking <em>world </em>looking for you." Scott ranted. "France, Portugal, Morocco, and turns out you're in <em>California </em>the <em>whole time.</em> Jesus <em>Christ, </em>Isaac-"</p><p>And it's Isaac that closed the final meters between them, muttering a low <em>"God, shut </em>up, <em>Scott," </em>and Scott <em>has </em>to shut up, because Isaac's pressed his mouth to his. </p><p>Everything- <em>everything-</em> melts away.</p><p>It feels like it's been days when Isaac finally pulls away, even though it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Scott's flabbergasted and Isaac's face is flooding red. </p><p>"Right now, I can't exactly explain why I left the way I did." Isaac murmurs slowly. "But- <em>that</em> was a reason." </p><p>Scott's never felt a rush like this before. </p><p>"Oh." He says dumbly, dazed. Isaac laughs a little, and it's the most amazing thing Scott's ever heard. </p><p>"Is that okay?" Isaac mumbles. </p><p>Scott nods vigorously; he almost gets whiplash. </p><p>"You really went to all those places to find me?" Isaac asked, wondrous. "You <em>tracked </em>me down?" </p><p>Scott's still not in a place where he can use his words, so he scrambles in his pockets. A moment later, he pulls out his addresses, his photo from Soraya. Isaac looks at them in awe.</p><p>"I-" Isaac stumbles over his words, his mind working faster than his mouth, and it's endearing, <em>so </em>endearing. "I'm not good with "I love you"s-"</p><p>"You don't need to say it back!" Scott said hastily, and he rubs his face at an attempt to hide his blush.</p><p>"Scott, shut <em>up." </em>Isaac says, frustrated but smiling. "I'm not good with saying I love you, okay? But I want to. And I can. <em>Just</em>, not right now."</p><p>Scott's okay with that. He's more than okay with that, especially if it means Isaac grabs his hand and squeezes it tight. He's <em>definitely </em>more than okay with that when Isaac kisses him again, soft and full of everything unspoken between them. </p><p>"Now." Scott murmurs, eyes closed when they break apart.</p><p>"I'm bringing you home." </p>
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